What Lies Between
by chazper
Summary: Summary: Ryan reflects after his encounter with Theresa in “The O.Sea.” (God, I hate that title.) Disclaimer: I own none of the characters


  
What Lies Between 

She had still been a little skittish, shivering slightly against his chest when he kissed her goodnight. Her arms looped around his neck felt dutiful at first, then desperate, clinging, and she never met his eyes, not even when he murmured reassurances, hoping that she would match them with her own.

Ryan is left with so many more questions than answers. He knows with awful certainty that something happened between Marissa and Trey—something between, or behind, or beneath her half-guilty, half-shamed "nothing" and Trey's steady-eyed insistence that Marissa threw herself at him. They're hiding something from Ryan, both of them—Marissa with evasions and averted glances, Trey with unanswered calls, an escape to Chino, and finally a guileless oath, an echo of so many Ryan grew up trusting and later regretting.

Nothing will be right in his world, nothing will be real, until he finds out the truth. If they won't tell him, Ryan will just have to figure it out.

What he doesn't understand, lying alone in bed, wrapped in doubt and deception, is why the image searing his closed eyelids isn't Marissa's face, or even Trey's.

Ryan keeps seeing Theresa.

There had been that one moment on the street in Chino, as a truck blocked her from view, when he thought he simply imagined her, conjured her up because he so needed one person who spanned his past and his present and whom he could trust.

But of all the people in his life, Theresa had always been the least illusory. As soon as the truck rumbled past, Ryan recognized how real she was, solid, sincere and familiar. As he crossed the street, a little cautiously, he looked for loss in her eyes, or accusation—something that would remind him of how he had left her, empty and alone. All Ryan saw was surprise, a flicker of something he couldn't name, and then, to his relief, a warmer expression that he always knew as Theresa: a welcome.

They had fallen into a comfortable rhythm, walking together. Just one awkward moment jarred their ease with each other, when Ryan reached to take the bag Theresa was carrying. For a second, no more, his arm grazed hers as she passed her burden to him, and Ryan felt a flash of what might have been:

_A stroll on a spring evening, Theresa cradling their sleeping baby until Ryan would turn around, quirking a hopeful smile, raising his arms. She would roll her eyes. "You'll be sorry," she'd warn. "He gets really heavy after a while." "That's why I should take him," Ryan would laugh. "Hey, I could carry you both." "I know," Theresa would murmur. "You do." Then carefully, tenderly, Theresa would ease their child into his willing hands._

Except, Ryan reminds himself, it wouldn't have been that way at all. He and Theresa wouldn't have had any leisure for aimless walks. Their time and energy would have been consumed by work and night school and laundry and cleaning and the constant, draining effort of pretending that they had nothing to repent or resent.

Theresa, Ryan is sure, understands that truth too. She sent him back to Newport—back to Marissa--with a kiss that scarcely skimmed his cheek as she slipped inside the house, shutting him out of her life, her fresh start. And now, when he needs to think about Trey and Marissa, needs to mold the amorphous lies he knows they both told into some identifiable shape, Ryan somehow can't banish that parting image.

Theresa closing the door.

It reminds him of too much he would rather forget.

Ryan loves Theresa, can't remember a time that he didn't love her or imagine a time when he won't, but something changed between them over the summer. Or maybe, Ryan thinks, something came between them: a mutating body sometimes named obligation, sometimes need, too often despair. It wore Marissa's face, or Eddie's, or an anonymous child's. Theresa and Ryan could ignore it during the day when they were both busy and often apart, but at night, there it was, insinuating itself into every space they shared.

Into their room.

Into their bed.

Ryan still wonders why her mother allowed him to share Theresa's bed. He expected to take Arturo's, or even sleep on the couch, but that very first day Theresa had simply led him into her room. After a quick sideways glance at her mother, who stood arms folded and grave, Ryan had followed. He dropped his duffle bag, sighed, and looked up to see Theresa's eyes fixed on him, suspiciously bright before she forced a smile and turned away, gesturing to the dresser.

"I cleared a couple drawers for you," she said. "And you can have half the closet space."

Ryan shook his head. "Theresa." His voice sounded hoarse, and he cleared his throat before finishing heavily, "I don't need half the closet space. Or any, really. Just the drawers will be fine."

Theresa twisted a strand of hair, a nervous habit Ryan thought she had outgrown long ago. "But . . . your suits," she objected. "You should hang them up so they don't get wrinkled, Ryan."

He shrugged and busied himself unpacking his jeans. "I didn't bring them."

"Oh," she breathed. It was a single syllable that sounded like hope slowly seeping away. "Well, I guess . . . I'll help Mama with dinner." At the door, Theresa paused, glancing back over her shoulder as if to be sure he hadn't already gone. "Do you need anything, Ryan?"

He pushed a hand through his sweat-damp hair and pulled open a drawer, tugging hard when it resisted. "No," he lied softly. "I don't."

That night Ryan stayed up long after Theresa had gone to bed, sitting on the front steps, his face tipped to the flat, starless sky. He wished he had a cigarette, but he knew there was no point resurrecting the habit now. After all, Theresa was pregnant.

Everything always came back to that.

Theresa was pregnant.

Ryan closed his eyes, trying to imagine himself away. Instead, he was fifteen again. He could smell stale beer, asphalt and smoke, hear dogs barking, doors slamming, car engines revving, high, brittle voices laughing or flinging profanities.

There was no way to pretend he was anywhere but Chino.

Finally, Ryan gave up and went into the house. He undressed quietly in the dark bedroom, stripping off his stiff jeans, placing his boots neatly side by side under a chair. His hands automatically started to peel off his t-shirt but then stopped, leaving it on, even though it was sticky and his skin wanted to breathe. For a moment, he stood by the bed, shadows washing around his body, trying to remind himself why he was here and who he needed to be.

From now on.

For the rest of his life.

Theresa was lying on her side, facing the wall, a thin sheet pulled up to her waist. One arm was draped across her stomach protectively, and she looked so vulnerable, so easy to bruise, that Ryan felt a tremor of helpless fear. Suddenly exhausted, he lifted the sheet just enough so that he could slip underneath. He eased in slowly, trying not to jostle the bed, but as soon as his body settled, Theresa rolled over. Her hand brushed his side and rested there. Ryan held his breath, willing her to be asleep, but after a moment her fingers plucked slightly at the fabric.

"Ryan?" she whispered tentatively. "Aren't you too warm with that on?"

Ryan clenched his jaw, then turned to face her, shaking his head. "No," he said, and wondered how many lies he would have to tell every day, or whether, really, every word and gesture was just a small part of the same false, fragile reality.

Theresa brushed tangled hair out of her face. Her eyes glittered with hurt. "Yes, you are. I know you, remember?" She pushed herself up slightly. The thin strap of her nightgown fell off her shoulder, and Ryan caught a glimpse of her breast, firm and fuller than he'd remembered, a rich, layered white, like the inside of a shell. He inhaled sharply, hoping she didn't hear.

"You should just take it off," Theresa suggested. Her eyes asked permission, and her hands hovered for a moment, trembling, an inch from his body. Then they slid under his shirt and dragged the cloth up, pausing to dry the sweat that had gathered in the hollow of his throat. Ryan's muscles contracted, hot under her palms, and he licked his lips as she leaned closer to pull the shirt over his head. Her hair fell forward, strands catching on his mouth and lashes, making a web across his face.

Blindly, Ryan reached up, searching for some escape, but Theresa's fingers closed around his wrists and locked there. Words--"Don't," "Can't," "Shouldn't"--formed somewhere in his mind, but Ryan wasn't sure anymore what they meant or even how to pronounce them.

"Better?" Theresa murmured. She dipped her head into his neck, sharp nipples grazing his chest as she sucked his earlobe into her mouth and pressed their joined hands hard into the pillow on either side of his head. Her tongue lapped slowly along Ryan's jaw. He smelled musky vanilla under some unknown spice, felt her breath branding his skin, and a current charged through his chest, stomach, groin. The sheet knotted low around his legs as he shifted under the curve and weight of Theresa's body, straining to touch her everywhere, feel every inch of warm, generous flesh. A drift of silk fabric dragged sinuously across his shoulders, and then there was just Theresa, Theresa, Theresa, and Ryan heard himself give a guttural moan.

"Marissa," he hissed, between his bared teeth.

Before the sound of the word faded, Theresa released him. She rolled to the far side of the bed, and everywhere her flesh had touched his, Ryan felt a slap of cold, angry air.

"I'm sorry," he said, desperately, helplessly. "Theresa, I'm sorry." His hand reached toward her shoulder, but when he touched her she quivered, then lay dangerously still. "I didn't mean to . . . Theresa?"

Her voice was hollow. "I know you didn't, Ryan. We both know . . . we all know . . . you came here for the baby. Not me."

"Theresa," he repeated, but he knew no matter how many times he said it, they would both still hear another name.

After that they fell into a pattern—glancing kisses on the cheek or the temple, in the morning, at night, when one of them left for the day; Ryan's arm loose around Theresa in the clinic waiting room when she went for her check-ups; staggered bedtimes; apologies after every accidental contact; and an unmarked, inviolate space between them in bed. It was a ritual that kept them separate and safe, that allowed them to preserve whatever remained of their old, vital love.

Still, Ryan felt Theresa watching him, waiting for something, searching his rare smiles for some secret message. Sometimes the sense of her wanting what he couldn't give oppressed him so that he could scarcely breathe. And Ryan wanted too. Every day, Theresa seemed to ripen. Her skin had a sheen like washed fruit, rosy and ready to eat. When she stretched in the summer heat her body arched like a cat's, and she would give a little purr in the back of her throat that made Ryan's cock stiffen instantly.

But he couldn't touch her. There was too much at stake, even though Ryan was no longer sure just what he was trying to protect. He began spending long hours away from the house, hanging out at the old pool hall, putting in extra hours on the job, playing pick-up games at the rec center. Anything that would bring him back too tired to do more than jerk himself off in the shower and then fall into a dreamless sleep.

Once—just once—the pattern changed. One Friday in July, a sweltering, airless night, Ryan sat on the front steps, rolling an old, worn baseball between his palms, waiting until he was sure Theresa was asleep before he went inside. He glanced up when he heard the screen door close, surprised to see her come out. She had changed for bed an hour ago, but now she was dressed again, in as few clothes as possible—sandals, cut-offs and a bandeau top. Her skin glistened with sweat, and she had her purse slung over her shoulder.

"This is foolishness, Theresa!" her mother called from inside the house. "You come back here right now."

Ryan scrambled to his feet. "What is it? What's wrong?" he demanded.

Theresa's mother snorted. She clutched her robe closed and waved in disgust from the doorway. "A craving, she says. A craving. Theresa must have her special treat, even if it means going to the bodega in the middle of the night."

"It's not even eleven, Mama," Theresa protested. "That's not the middle of the night."

"Eh, I give up. Ryan, see if you can't talk some sense into my stubborn girl. I'm going to bed, which is what you should do too, mi hija." Theresa's mother gave another wave, this time dismissive, and closed the front door.

Ryan's lips quirked. "You're having a craving, Theresa?" he asked. "I didn't know pregnant women really got those."

"Well, they do," Theresa retorted defensively. Then she gave a rueful smile. "All right, I never believed in them either, but right now I really want a Snowball."

Ryan cocked his head. "A . . . snowball," he echoed, slanting a dubious glance at her. "Theresa?"

"Not a snowball like ice, imbécil," she laughed, slapping his arm. "You know, Ryan . . . the cream-filled cakes, the ones with the coconut on them."

"Oh. Those." Ryan nodded, his mouth curving slyly. "The ones shaped like breasts."

Theresa flushed. "They are not!" she objected.

Ryan sidestepped, laughing, as she swung her purse at his legs. "Yes, they are," he teased. "And if you put a cherry on top . . . Mmm, delicious." He ran his tongue between his parted lips, growling a little as his eyes fastened on the spill of flesh revealed by Theresa's strapless top.

Theresa giggled and then caught her breath. For a moment, all the air between them was sucked away, and then it rushed back, dangerous, heavy, humming with electrical current. Their eyes locked, hers an impossible black, Ryan's a blue burned away by desire. He took one instinctive step closer, then another. The ball he had been kneading heedlessly, harder and harder, dropped to the floor, bounced down the steps and rolled somewhere into the darkness. Ryan pressed his hands, now empty and aching, against the sides of Theresa's breasts, dragged them down, let them linger, tracing lines on the bare skin of her waist until he heard her gasp. He bent his head, licking a path just above the crimped fabric of her top, pausing at the center to thrust his tongue, wet, strong, suddenly greedy, into the hollow between her breasts.

"Oh, Dios. Mi Ryan. Por favor," Theresa moaned. She twisted her fingers into his hair, panting and pushing, driving him further into the center of her.

Ryan spread his legs, reached around ardently to cup her ass and pulled her tight against him, her thighs crushed inside his. He forced his head up, maybe to breathe, maybe just so that his mouth could claim hers. Throughout the years, they had learned so many different ways to kiss, but this seemed wholly new, raw, reckless, painful, filling their mouths with the taste of fear and blood. Theresa's arms snaked between them, nails scoring them both, one hand fumbling for Ryan's belt, the other unclasping her own.

Ryan dropped to his knees, pulling her down with him onto the unyielding floor. "I . . . want . . ." he gasped. His head fell back, and he felt Theresa's teeth bite his lower lip, then rake over his chin, down his throat. "Fuck . . . now . . ."

The porch light snapped on.

"Theresa! Ryan!" Her mother's voice, coldly furious, sliced between their hot bodies, severing them. "What? You are animals now? If you must do . . . that . . . you come inside. Not where all the neighbors can see. It's enough that God knows."

The light flashed once, a warning, and then stayed on.

It was too bright. Ryan could see everything.

Eyes wild, his teeth grinding together, he fell back, a feral groan tearing from somewhere beneath his throat.

Theresa groped for him blindly. "No," she panted. "It's all right. We can . . ." Her tongue rolled around the words, pushing them out. "Ryan. We can . . . in our room." She got to her feet in a series of short, shaky movements, using his shoulders for support, then reached under his elbows to pull him up beside her.

Ryan didn't move. His gaze flashed up for one unguarded moment, his eyes every shade of a gathering storm before he looked down again. "No," he muttered. "We can't."

"I don't understand." Theresa's nails curled into his flesh, trying to force him to face her. "You don't want to? Ryan, I know that you did."

Ryan heard the hurt. He couldn't risk seeing it too. "I want to," he admitted hoarsely. "But . . ."

It seemed that they stayed that way for a lifetime, rigid, each waiting for the other to move, before Ryan trusted himself to get up and step away from Theresa. He moved stiffly, a cripple afraid to fall, and he kept his eyes locked on the ground.

"You . . ." Ryan swallowed. He exhaled, slowly, carefully, and tried again. "You wanted some Snowballs. I could get them, Theresa . . . Why don't I go to the store for you?"

Theresa picked up the purse she'd abandoned, clutched it defensively in front of her. She blinked hard and raised her chin. "You don't have to."

"No," Ryan insisted. "I want to. You go on back inside." When Theresa hesitated he added, as if she needed a promise. "I'll be back soon. Do you . . . want anything else? Besides the Snowballs?"

Theresa's mouth crimped and she shook her head, a mute lie neither one of them believed.

"Okay, then," Ryan said softly. "Okay." He vaulted off the porch, feeling Theresa's eyes follow him all the way to the corner, around it, under the overpass, through the junkyard shortcut, inside the bodega door.

He couldn't outrun them no matter how fast he moved.

Now, Ryan tosses sleepless in bed, unable to shake the memory of that night, the image of Theresa's importunate face lifted to his. He wishes he could just replace it, but he has no substitute, because he realizes suddenly how little Theresa allowed him to see tonight. She kept herself hidden, veiled behind curtains of hair and her dark, downcast lashes, and Ryan wonders why.

Why couldn't she answer one letter?

Why is it so hard for her to look at him?

Why wouldn't she let him, just for one minute, inside?

Theresa has always been his refuge, but for the first time Ryan feels no surety in her, and no sense of absolute trust.

Maybe, he tells himself, it's just because he's confused by what's going on with Marissa and Trey, because he's already braced to be betrayed. It can't be because Theresa is like them. Ryan is sure she is not. She would never lie to him.

And yet.

And yet she closed the door, and recalling that instant, he knows.

Even now, there is still something between them.

FIN


End file.
